These times bring treachery
that those of us privileged
to bobble above earlier threats
have reason to fear.
Fire burns and swelling rivers flood our homes.
We are dismissed from secure jobs.
We gasp at the price of eggs,
and forego out-of-reach needed surgery.
Countless scams target our savings.
Worse, gun-toting hate mongers stalk us.
At the top of the stinking power heap
is one we,
in the now crumbling city on the hill,
thought we were immune from.
It’s enough to make us cringe and choke,
to rightfully rage against the assault.
And more and more of us are.
But that alone drains us,
makes us stubborn and surly.
Too much of that can
dampen our spirits and turn us sour.
We gotta mine the absurdity of it.
Poke fun at our anguish,
and the thick-headed thugs
that stoke it –
like the joke about the clueless fascist
who walks into a bar –
and lowers it.
Weave our just disgust
into street theatre denuding
the one who would be king
as the lecherous, reckless goon he is,
singing, “Me. Me, Me”
with his toy airplane and tank –
who the righteous chortling people subdue.
